Russian on Ice
by alynwa
Summary: Illya awaits extraction. Originally written for the Picfic Tuesday Challenge on LJ.


_I did not think I would die this way. How ironic. So many times I would laugh at Napoleon when he complained about cold weather. I would tell him that one must learn to embrace the cold: Splash ice water on your face, roll around in the snow, and wear just enough clothing to keep you warm. _"And nuh, nuh, nuh, now I, I, am to, to, to fruh, fruh, fruh, freeze to death in an ice, ice, ice_box,_" he was finally able to spit out as he walked in a tight circle, arms wrapped around himself in a futile effort to keep himself warm.

Ten hours earlier, he had successfully infiltrated a home near Duluth, Minnesota; not too far from Lake Superior, believed to be the vacation home of the newest member of THRUSH's Central Committee. He had waited patiently in the woods until he saw three couples, all with skis and ski equipment, load up a station wagon and drive down the pathway leading to the main road. He was confident that he had camouflaged the car he had driven to within a mile of the house well enough so that it wouldn't be found.

He waited twenty minutes just in case someone had forgotten something and then moved swiftly to the back door. He looked around for signs of an alarm system or booby-traps and finding nothing suspicious, pulled his lock pick from inside his glove and deftly opened the door. Once inside, he began placing listening devices throughout the house.

He placed one inside each telephone, behind the headboard in the master bedroom, a special waterproof one inside the shower head and inside lamps in every room. He remembered thinking how garishly over – the – top the décor was. As soon as he placed the last one, he pulled his communicator and said, "Open Channel B."

"This is Section IV, Intelligence and Communications, Amanda speaking. How may I help you, Agent Kuryakin?"

"I have completed my mission. Please activate and test all the devices. I will walk around and speak so you can do so."

Several minutes passed while he moved around the residence. "Agent Kuryakin, everything is in order."

"Thank you, I am leaving the premises. Kuryakin out." He had also checked that he had left no sign of his having been there during his walk through. As he stepped into the kitchen, he saw that a crockpot set on warm was on the counter. Curiosity got the better of him and he lifted the lid to see a vegetable soup. He went back into the living room where he had seen Styrofoam cups on the bar. He grabbed two and used one as a ladle to fill the other. Making sure he spilled nothing, he stepped outside and began retracing his steps until he was in the woods. As he walked, he placed one cup inside the other and drank down the soup. When he finished, he tucked the cups into his jacket pocket. _I am still hungry, but that will hold me for the two hour drive back to the Minneapolis office. _

He arrived back at the car and removed the snow and branches that masked it and got inside. _Napoleon doesn't know it yet, but he is treating me to dinner. There are least two Russian restaurants there. _He turned the key and was met with dead silence. _Chyort! _He quickly popped the hood and checked all the connections and anything else he could think of. He tried once more to start the car and again, nothing happened. With the oncoming night, he figured it had become too cold for the battery. Sighing heavily, he reached for his communicator. "Open Channel S, please. Napoleon?"

"Right here, Partner Mine. Congrats on completing your mission. Are you on your way back?"

"I was. The car will not start. I am requesting an extraction." He scowled when he heard the American chuckle.

"Just when I was starting to think you could get along without me and my luck. Stand by," Napoleon said and Illya knew he was checking with the head of the branch office the best way to retrieve his partner. "Illya, you're approximately two miles from Lake Superior. There's an abandoned lighthouse there that's sometimes used as a rendezvous point. A motorboat is being dispatched from Thunder Bay, Ontario. It will take about six hours to get there, but I'm thinking that walking that terrain will take you about two hours."

"Minneapolis does not have a helicopter?"

"Yes, they do, but unfortunately, it's grounded for scheduled maintenance. Mr. Waverly is on my back about my overdue performance evaluations for the agents in this office, the majority of whom are in the field; otherwise, I would send someone for you."

The Russian groaned inwardly. "Of course it is grounded. Make sure the boat is not late; the temperature is expected to drop drastically tonight."

"Don't worry, Tovarisch. Your luck won't get worse."

It got worse. Much, much worse. Illya made it to the lighthouse in reasonably good time considering that he was trudging through snow with only his compass as his guide. He climbed to the top and tried to see anything in the blackness that was now the lake. The sun had set ten minutes before he had arrived and he was glad to be out of the cold. The wind had started to rise, causing the wind chill to drop precipitously. There was no power, but there was a potbellied stove and some firewood and a few matches so he was able to start a small fire. _This is not so bad, _he thought. The chirping of his communicator brought him out of his reverie.

"Illya, Napoleon. I'm on my way to get you."

"I thought you had reports past due. What has happened?"

"Thunder Bay called; a nasty wind storm whipped up out of nowhere and the boat had to turn back. Unfortunately, it's heading right for you. High winds are being reported and the temperature is supposed to drop to record lows. The good news is that it's too cold to snow."

"Icy conditions and high winds? Bring a flame thrower because any waves that hit the lighthouse will freeze. How long before you are here?"

"I've been on the road for ten minutes. I was told that normally this drive is just over two hours, but the closer I get to you, the worse the driving will be. It doesn't matter; I will be there. I understand you can build a fire?"

Illya looked at his heat source. "I have a fire, albeit a small one. There was not a lot of wood in here and there is no furniture to burn. Hopefully, the fire will last until you arrive."

"Have faith, Partner Mine. Come hell or high frozen water, I will get there. Solo out."

That had been hours ago. The wind had begun to surge and push the water into high white - tipped waves that hit the lighthouse mercilessly until the windows were so iced over, he could no longer see anything. The fire couldn't completely warm the space he occupied and just as he was about to add the last of the wood to the stove, he realized that the water crashing against the building was freezing into all the cracks and crevices and thus was making the lighthouse airtight. _The fire could eat up all the oxygen in here! _He put the wood down and stayed close to the stove to absorb the diminishing heat.

_Napoleon will be here soon, _he kept repeating in his head like a mantra after the few remaining embers failed to keep him warm. _He will be here soon to get me out of here and I'll finally be able to get warm. _He knew that he needed to stay awake or he could freeze to death in his sleep so he refused to sit. He walked in circles and solved calculus problems in his head for as long as he could. _Napoleon, please be here soon. Ya tak kholodno. Tak kholodno. Tak kholodno. (I am so cold. So cold. So cold.)_

His communicator warbled again, but it wasn't registering in his mind. The constant howl of the wind and dropping temperature in the lighthouse had narrowed his focus down to one thing: Keep moving. His hands were so stiff with cold he couldn't have assembled his communicator if he had realized he was being hailed. His gait had slowed to a shuffle. _Napoleon, please. I did not think I would die this way. How ironic. So many times I would laugh at Napoleon when he complained about cold weather. I would tell him that one must learn to embrace the cold: Splash ice water on your face, roll around in the snow, and wear just enough clothing to keep you warm. _"And nuh, nuh, nuh, now I, I, am to, to, to fruh, fruh, fruh, freeze to death in an ice, ice, ice_box,_" he was finally able to spit out as he walked in a tight circle, arms wrapped around himself in a futile effort to keep himself warm.

"Illya!" Napoleon had been stunned by the shaft of ice that stood where he knew the lighthouse to be. _God, I thought he was kidding about the flame thrower! _He didn't have one, but what he did have was a box of road flares. He kept the car running while he set about melting the ice from around the door, all the while being pelted by lake water. Fortunately, it didn't take long to force the door and run up the circular stairs. "Illya! I'm here! Let's get the hell out of here!"

"Na, na, napo…"

He picked the slight blond up in a fireman's carry and dashed down the stairs. He all but threw his partner into the back seat, covered him with a blanket that was there and immediately ran around and got in the driver's side. Turning the heat all the way up, he quickly assembled his communicator and said, "Open Channel D."

Mr. Waverly's voice came through loud and clear. "Do you have your partner, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, sir. He's a little worse for wear, but I think he'll be okay. I'll make sure he's checked out by Medical here before we fly east."

The Old Man harrumphed, "He will be flying back alone, Mr. Solo. You will not return without those evaluations ready for my review and signature. I expect them by close of business Friday. Waverly out."

He put his communicator away and turned around to check on Illya who was shivering under the blanket. "You're going to be fine, Partner Mine. The heat is coming up strong and the roads aren't _too _bad. You can sleep now; it's alright, it's safe. I told you I'd come for you."

The Russian, still too cold to speak coherently, gave a weak little grin of acknowledgement and settled in to sleep. His last thought before he drifted off was, _He told me to have faith in him. He is a good partner._


End file.
